


Fallen Icari

by CloverTheGrand



Series: APH poems [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Historical Hetalia, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Poetry, Spanish Civil War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 12:53:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19724068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloverTheGrand/pseuds/CloverTheGrand
Summary: A poem Arthur wrote for Antonio many years ago, crumpled inside the box where dead poems slept.





	Fallen Icari

Oh, my fallen Icarus,

My angel, sweetheart, sun.

Do not fret of your diminishment,

For I, too, had my wings undone.

Oh, us fallen Icari,

Us fledglings new to flight.

Too naive, we fall while touching skies,

And into graveyards built on plight.

Oh, my darling Icarus,

Our fate is not to fly.

You were the morning sun that wakes me up,

But now we

* * *

_Arthur ripped the paper out of the typewriter and scrunched it up, nevermind the so many drafts, restless nights, and how close this one was to completion. He shouldn't send this._

_Antonio needed this, he needed to see a silver lining, wasn't that why he wrote that thing?_

_It was. Oh, how he wished to hold his dear sun within his arms. Oh, how he wished to coddle against his sun-kissed skin, brush back his soft brown curls and kiss his forehead, promising that everything can be alright. Oh, how he wished he had the sword to this Gordian knot._

_Spain didn't need his bleeding encouragement nor his arrogance. He didn't need to know how his empire had fallen too, nor how much Arthur "loved" him despite the fact that their relationship was dead. He didn't need this bloody poem, and even if it did lift his morale, will a love poem sort out his civil war where thousands, millions were involved?_

_Selfish. Arthur was selfish._

_A force stopped him from chucking it into the bin. Why? Cowardice. That was why. Arthur never had the guts to abandon anything he put his hard work and time into, no matter how useless and irrelevant to his work it was. Throw it, he commanded. Throw it out, but his arm would not budge._

_He sighed. Again his naive, sentimental side won. As the paper's sharp edges poked into his palm, England stuffed it into the wooden box where dead poems slept._


End file.
